Hands
by TheWinchesterFest
Summary: Dean lets hands that he has no idea who they belong to, work the pain from his body and give him the comfort he so desperately needed. Contains Wincest. Sam/Dean.


Disclaimer: I do NOT own any SPN characters.

"You alright?" Sam asked him again as he picked up an orange from Bobby's table and peeled it. He settled himself by the window and looked out at the dimming sky.

"I'm fine." Dean was in excruciating pain, but he liked to keep it to himself. Sam offered him pieces of his fruit, but all he wanted was to trudge up those damn stairs and sleep away his aches and pains. He left Sam to his window-watching and pulled himself to the room upstairs, wincing as he pulled the clothes from his body. He lowered himself to his stomach and curled up to the cool refreshing pillow on his hot face. The air from the fan above made him shiver in his thin briefs, but the cool air cleared his head. He dozed on and off for what seemed like hours until he gave up and kept his eyes on the curtains moving rhythmically across the window.

When fingers trailed down his bruised back, he flinched but relaxed into the carefully placed touches against his rough tarnished skin, closing his tired eyes. He honestly couldn't care less about who it was or why they were voluntarily working the kinks from his muscles. It could have been Jo or Ellen, but the hands he felt were too rough and large to be a woman's. But again, he didn't care.

It was more than calming as the cautious fingers dug into a knot under his shoulder blade; a spot that had his arm wound so tight he could hardly hold his gun steady earlier that day. And by God it was glorious to feel it unwound so quickly at the ginger prodding of these remarkably talented fingers. The touches lingered over the deepest bruises, taking the pain away and making his head numb.

He never liked to admit how much he actually hurt after being thrown about like a ragdoll by douche bag spirits. And it seemed like it was always concrete or a hard dirt floor he was thrown down upon constantly. But the last time, he hit the back of his head so hard everything was tinted blue for a few hours. Both of his elbows had hit first before anything else and the pain was sharp and prickling all the way to his fingertips. He could still feel the persistent jolts anytime he attempted to clench his fists.

The headache still lingered, but was being kindly cast out as those wondrous fingers found their way to his head and gently drew circles against his temples. The deep sigh he let out transformed into a groan of satisfaction as everything seemed to melt away. His pain was at the mercy of these heavenly hands that he never wanted to leave his body. He sucked in another refreshing lung full of air as the fan above creaked with every spin and made the hair on his head flicker.

Carefully, the tough hands gripped his shoulder and hip and pulled him slowly; rolling him to his back. Dean couldn't help but let out a hiss through his teeth when he put just a bit too much pressure on the ribs that had been met forcefully by a steel pole not too long ago. He couldn't pry his dreadfully exhausted eyelids open to view his captor, but then again, he didn't give a damn. As long as these hands didn't leave him for a while, he'd be perfectly grateful, no matter who they belonged to.

A steaming hot wash cloth was laid to rest over his eyes, which began to push the last few stings of the ache in his head to the curb. His hand was lifted as the rough calloused fingers pushed and pulled at the hardened muscles and tendons underneath the skin of his palm. He never knew a massage to the hand could feel this relieving. He'd never been touched like this, but he most definitely could get used to it. He flexed his fingers as the pair of magical ones moved to his other hand, moving up his arm to his strained elbows and biceps. It was the kind of good that made you tired, but it was so good you couldn't fall asleep for fear of missing it.

The kink in his neck was suddenly gone and those perfectly shaped fingers left his skin. He immediately felt colder, the goose bumps forming as a chill ran over his body. He needed the touch, the company, and the comfort. But he lay still, letting this person contemplate as he kept his mind to himself and continued to relish the feeling of their hands before it went away completely. But, it suddenly came back in an unexpected heated rush as those now taunting fingers coasted over his thighs, gripping the taught wound muscle and working it loose.

His toes popped as he bunched his feet and clenched his fists in an attempt to calm his raging testosterone. He let out a low inaudible noise as he tried to pacify his arousal. But he knew he'd be done for if those fingers found their caressing way up to his plump hips; his weak spot where he was overly sensitive just on the swell of his hips above his ass. A slight graze of those fingertips and he would be hard in less than five seconds. If he knew who this was he could simply reach a hand out and stop them short as their fingers danced up the sides of his thighs. He knew where they were going, he damn well knew.

But God, he didn't know who it was. He didn't want to know. He didn't want them to stop that mesmerizing tickle of fingertips across the swell of his hips. He was being unraveled by these hands that didn't have a name. He was being pulled apart at the seams as these fingers coaxed quiet, almost feminine, gasps from him. It was unlike Dean to give in to something like this, to not even want to know who these strong and obvious male hands belonged to before letting them have his way with him.

But, to let himself go just this once was heaven for him. Even if it was a man next to him working at the throbbing heat between his thighs, he needed this. He needed the closeness and intimacy this someone was so willingly giving him without saying a word. There was no hesitation in this man's movements; he knew what he was doing and knew what Dean needed. He knew he needed to be unhinged just a little, needed the pain to subside so he could feel something good again.

Dean couldn't resist the urge to grab this someone and buck his hips against him and those God-forsaken hands. He did just that, holding onto the frame of the now obviously larger man and pressed into him, urging those hands to finish unthreading him. The sinful fingers he was quickly falling over the edge for gracefully became his undoing; his slick warmth sliding across his stomach. His mouth hung open in the dark, his eyes shut tight, and fingers sinking deep into the other man's side until the intensity faded. Until he could breathe again.

An opportunity presented itself when his captor draped a heavy arm across his side. The man exhaled and he felt it rush across his face leaving a fruity scent for him to follow. He didn't hesitate to push himself up and over to the lips that were welcoming and warm. They were more firm than he expected, but it was a guy after all. And he had to admit he kind of liked the prick of the short fine stubble on his face. The man's tongue played in tune with his as he licked at the fresh citrus flavor of his slick mouth.

Citrus. Orange. Jesus Christ. He swallowed when he thought of Sam picking up that orange from Bobby's kitchen table and peeling it, offering him the bigger pieces which he refused before hauling himself upstairs to wallow in pain. The wide span of this guy's hands and wide frame suddenly felt familiar and normal. He slowly reached his hand up and brushed his fingers through the long hair he hoped he wouldn't find. He waited to feel the sickness form in the pit of his stomach, but inhaled sharply when it didn't. A hand flitted through his short hair in return and came to rest on the back of his neck, gently pulling at the fine hairs.

"How do you feel?" Sam asked softly, so quiet and deep he thought he might have imagined it. He couldn't explain how he felt. He didn't have a single flicker of pain in his body, not since Sam's fingers worked out every tiny knot. He could just make out the outline of his face and a slight shine in Sam's eyes from a dim light outside in the scrap yard. He never knew how much he needed this. He never knew how much he needed Sam, right here. He touched his fingers to Sam's face, feeling the creamy skin and the square of his jaw. A warm smile crept across his face in the visible light as he looked down at the only guy that could pull him apart piece by piece and put him back together.

"Better."


End file.
